Man, What a Way to Find out You're Really Gay
by crazyvegimab
Summary: The sun was shining, school was out, and they were in the possession of two double scoop ice cream cones. But when Cuba didn't seem cheerful, Canada began to fear the coming of the apocalypse. -Cuba/Canada, High school AU-
1. Chapter 1

Title: _Man, What a Way to Find out You're Really Gay_

Characters: Canada, Cuba

Rating/Warnings: T, for boy love, and swearing.

Notes: Something I whipped out while I was bored in Japan, so I don't claim that it has any quality to it. Also, it'_s another_ one of those High School AUs, so don't get your hopes up too high. Oh, and if you find any errors in my conventions, please don't hesitate to point them out. I tend to make plenty of typos. Anyway, enjoy~

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Above, the sun blazed especially pure, as if determined to warm the blue skies with its bright rays. Summer was here, and the earth wished to show it off by donning warm weather. School had ended scant minutes before hand, signaling the end of my days as a sophomore and my first official moments as a junior. It was good to have finally gotten to a level where I wouldn't be considered the underdog, but I was going to miss some of the seniors who had graduated. For example, our hockey team just wouldn't be quite the same without Russia, the tall kid who had a ridiculous amount of strength but the creepiest smile, and I would really miss seeing China, who sometimes hung out with me at lunch. But there wasn't much I could do worrying over it now. I turned my attention back to the ice cream cone I held between my fingers.

A bark of amused laughter distracted me from the sweet sticky dairy I had put my energy into consuming. After pausing to keep my glasses from falling off my nose and shake the blond hair out of my eyes, I looked up.

The man sitting next to me had deep brown skin, just a few shades darker than someone who spent every possible moment in the sun, and thick black hair that he restrained back via dreadlocks and a sturdy pony tail. At the moment, his chestnut eyes were squeezed shut in merriment, and his mouth was wide with joy, showing a flash of white teeth.

I could remember the first time I had seen that smile—two years ago—on the first day of my freshman year. There had been a good several hundred of us, ripe for bullying, crowded around the main doors as we waited for some sort of weird orientation planned for our first day. I been standing off to the side, a little too intimidated to dig my way into the crowd but still curious enough to look for people I knew. Then I felt a rough hand grab my shoulder. Surprised, my thoughts were left askew and my balance teetering.

"America, you bastard," the growl was deep, much like a dog at an intruder, or a superhero at his mortal enemy.

"I…um…I'm not America," I quickly sputtered out. Always, ALWAYS, people were mistaking me for my twin brother, and that was _not _alright with me. I was well aware of the fact that we shared the same face, hair color, eye color, and both wore glasses, but we were completely different people! If you saw the two of us—one standing on top of a table and shouting while the other quietly reading a book, I sure as hell wasn't the guy on the table.

I had never seen the man who was glaring at me before, with his dark hair and angry red shirt, and he had probably never seen me before. He just wasn't aware of that last fact.

"You sure as hell look like him," He shot back.

"Well no duh, we're twins stupid!" Is what I wanted to snap back, but instead a simple, "He's my brother," came out. "He's standing over there with all those people."

Following my finger, the dark skinned man glanced at my brother with narrowed eyes. "Tch. Figures he's with friends. It would be impossible to finish our fight now."

"I think that he does that on purpose actually," I mused aloud. "He always likes to be with people he can 'help,' so he can be the 'hero.' " I paused to roll my eyes.

"Psh, a fat lot of help he is," the stranger grumbled, still looking America's way. "And his attitude gets on my nerves."

"Agreed, he doesn't know when to lay off."

_This_ got the stranger to turn and look at me. His eyes widened, as if he had just witnessed the second coming of Christ. "You don't like him?"

"Well, he's my brother, so I have to like him, but…" I paused to sigh. "I really sometimes wonder how it is that we're related at all. I mean, he's so noisy, and he always gets into fights…"

"And he never shuts up," The dark skinned man added in.

I nodded and continued, "And he doesn't understand the concept of personal space, or accepting others' beliefs, or not touching—"

"—The belongings of others." He finished. Our eyes met and I watched as my smile was mirrored by his own white teeth. "I'm Cuba." He held out his hand again, only this time, it was in the extension of something precious.

"Canada."

And thus, a beautiful friendship was born.

Back to the present, I looked up quickly, surprised by his laughter. "W-what?"

"You have ice cream on your nose," he explained, before breaking out into another fit of chuckles as I went cross-eyed trying to locate said dairy. His last laughs died away as he watched me unsuccessfully wipe the sticky stuff from my nose. "Here, let me help." There was something different in his eyes, as he leaned towards me with an atmosphere that was almost commanding. At first I wanted to reel back, spooked by this new persona, but it left with the speed it occurred, leaving behind a soft glow in his eyes, and I felt myself being drawn in.

Our faces were hovering close to each other like two polar molecules when Cuba reached out to complete a hydrogen bond with his very pink tongue, licking all traces of the ice cream swiftly from my nose.

Normally, I would have laughed, or just made a disgusted face, but just then I felt a jolt through my body. His tongue had sent a wave through me like static electricity, and I flinched away.

I could feel heat surging through my body—courtesy of Cuba's touch—and my mind went on overdrive trying to figure out just what was going on. My stomach wouldn't stop tingling, and my cheeks were flushed. "W-what…Cuba…?" I finally managed to stutter, half wishing I could get more complex sentences out, half wishing I could identify this feeling.

"Sorry, Sorry." He was smiling with that face that didn't quite make it into a smile, or at least, not _his_ smile—the one he had shown me earlier. This one was fake somehow.

" 's okay…" I murmured quickly, and I glanced down at my ice cream for a moment before looking back up at his face. He had returned to his own personal bubble, and was rolling his ice cream cone between his fingers with a dull disinterested look on his face.

God, He was weirding me out.

He had been acting so strange the last couple of weeks. Something _must_ have dawned on him, because he was like a small animal struck by lightning: fizzled and completely out of it half the time. Sighs would escape his lips more commonly than breath would come in, and sometimes when he didn't think I was looking, he would stare me down, his eyes ghosted with that same dreamy look they'd had not seconds before. When even ice cream (which had been my treat) failed to cheer him up, it was time to get seriously worried.

I straightened in his direction, making my interest more apparent. "Cuba… you seem down… Is everything okay?"

"Hmm?" He looked up at me, dazed, as if he had been swimming in a dark hole and someone had just now pulled him up, leaving his eyes unaccustomed to the new brightness; he reeled for a moment before responding. "Everything's cool." The words were automatic—fake.

"You sure?" I hated to pry, but unless I did so, Cuba would never tell me anything. He was "too manly for feelings" or something akin to that rubbish.

"Really, I'm fine."

"…I guess so. You just… don't look like yourself." As usual, my words were a fluffed version of my thoughts, like medicine after it's been sweetened up with corn syrup—only in this case, the potency wasn't the same.

"Look, it doesn't matter!" He stood up angrily, with a rough growl in his voice. His uneaten ice cream was tossed violently in a nearby trash receptacle; Gods, whatever was bothering him HAD to be big.

"It matters to me!" Please, please, please, let there be an exclamation mark at the end of that outburst, because, honestly, it really did matter. Cuba was my best friend. He deserved the level of dedication an exclamation mark indicated at the very least.

"It shouldn't," He spat back quickly.

"And why not, eh?" I looked back at him with what I hoped were angry eyes and a hurt expression. Damn, I really needed to work at being less passive.

"Do you really want to know?" His voice had grown low, the type of angry that was dangerous.

"Of course!" Before anything else could be said, he was right next to me, like a silent hawk swooping down on his prey without warning. He seized my shoulders roughly, and I flinched away, afraid he would hit me.

I did not expect his attack to be aimed at my lips.

The kiss was rough, passionate, and possessive. Anything that had been in my mind previously had vanished completely and all I could think about was him: his sturdy hands gripping my shoulders; his hot lips touching mine; his tongue penetrating my mouth. The feeling overwhelmed me with a sticky wave of red—my cheeks hot. I was so blown away by this new truth that I wasn't even able to kiss him back. But I wanted to.

I had always thought of him just as my best friend, but now, suddenly, his tongue rolled against mine, beckoning me to melt into him and become his. All the awkward moments, butterfly stomachs, and flushed cheeks suddenly made sense. This had been going on all along, and I just hadn't been aware.

Man, what a way to find out that you're really gay.

There was nothing wrong with being gay, I knew. I mean, my brother (despite his claims of being "bi") was all over his boyfriend, England, and I had accidentally walked in on them a couple of times. Practically everyone at school was aware of it—America's favorite spot to make out being the corner between the math hall and the science building, much to England's dismay—and all of the radical homophobes had been silenced by his fists. It also helped that the school had a big GSA club, and a whole bunch of tolerant students. So it wasn't like it was dangerous to be gay or anything.

And honestly, I couldn't see why I hadn't realized it before. Cuba was rather attractive, and he always looked out for me, listening to me whine about my teachers constantly forgetting my existence. He was just a good guy. I wouldn't mind being more than his best friend.

But before I could put these thoughts into action, he was pulling back. I floundered, confused, as his hands, his lips, his presence, weren't there anymore. He left me gaping like a fish out of water, my mouth hanging open, my ice cream lying face down on the pavement.

"I like you. I've liked you for such a long time." He was talking, my brain registered that, but I couldn't muster the strength to look up at him. It was as if the kiss had drained all my batteries, and my whole body had gone numb—like the black screen of a broken monitor.

"I hated liking you. You're my best friend, to like you was to betray your trust. But I can't resist. You're just so..." I could see his hand coming forward, as if intent on leaving soft touches on my cheek. It was yanked backwards moments later, Cuba quickly chiding himself.

"I'm such a fag, falling in love with my best friend."

"Cuba…!" Damn this passive nature. Damn this inability to think. Damn me for not being able to stop this barrage of words he shot at himself, but I was left stone still, like a worker expected to move a giant boulder even though his machinery is broken.

"I'm sorry, Canada, so sorry. I didn't want to ruin our friendship this way. It was only two years, but it was a solid two years."

"You're wrong!" I wanted to scream. "You didn't ruin anything!" But I couldn't. I was left sitting as he walked away, frozen.


	2. Chapter 2

Title: _Man, What a Way to Find out You're Really Gay_

Characters: Canada, Cuba

Rating/Warnings: T, for boy love, and swearing.

Notes: Chapter Two, yay~

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"Cuba!"

My fist slammed against the wood of a cheap door; the number "303" had been painted in white against a deep green—both were peeling. My shouting (if it could be called that) echoed through the hallway that was rather empty except for three doors, a stair way, and a couple of empty beer cans that were kept company by an old newspaper and an extremely active—or extremely bored—spider.

"Cu—ba!"

I hoped he could hear me. If I had my way, everyone on the third floor would hear me, and the second and first floors too. The walls of this building were like an old man's hair, thin and patchy. Despite this, my voice still lacked the authority of my brother's, so thin walls or no, I wasn't sure if I was loud enough.

"Damnit Cuba, open up!"

This little apartment—shabby with one room, and most likely built by one of FDR's New Deal programs—was where Cuba lived (and had been living for the last year and a half) all by himself. In fact, it was the very thing that had brought us so close as friends. We talked and hung out during school, both our relationship hadn't really progressed beyond that. All the sudden, he started acting down, and seemed to curl up upon himself. Repeated pestering had gotten me the information that he was quarrelling with his adopted family (whom I later learned were actually his biological aunt and uncle), and most specifically, his older cousin, Spain. There was also something about religion too, but I never managed to get any more out of him than that.

Then, he mentioned something about moving out, and I had offered to help. There was something about moving boxes from a deserted house (Cuba refused to let his family help him move) into my brother's car (which I had been borrowing for the weekend), and finally to this little shabby place that had bonded us together. It had been the peanut butter to our sandwich. It was also the first time Cuba had ever hugged me—shaking and clinging desperately, but stubbornly refusing to cry—and that I had hugged him back.

"Cuba, open up, please or I'll…"

"You'll what?" He stood there, in front of me, the door yanked open just enough so his face was visible. He looked like he hadn't slept at all, there were dark rings under his eyes, and further inspection revealed that he was still clad in his night attire—a white tang top and a pair of deep green plaid pants that were fraying at the hems.

It was Saturday morning.

Normally he'd be at work this time, trying to scrape up enough money to pay for food and rent. Sometimes I'd sneak food into his fridge, and other times I would help Spain sneak money under his door. If we were caught, he would refuse our handouts outright, but if we could be sneaky enough and just leave the goods lying about, he had no choice but to accept them, however grumpy he might be. Today, however, Cuba had work off. I knew this for a fact. You see, I had a copy of his work schedule tacked to my wall.

In response to his question, I really had nothing to say. I suppose I could have shouted some angry retort about how he had run away before I could say anything last night, or how he didn't have a phone, so I wasn't able to call him. But nothing came out. I just stood and stared, my face pleading, not saying a word.

"Fine, fine. Come in." He sighed like an old man who has just realized that he must put his most faithful dog down. Stepping back, he opened the door just enough to let me squeeze through—thank God I was so thin—his hand still on the handle the entre time.

"Umm…" I looked up at him from where I had taken my seat: the tiny bed on the right side of his room that often doubled as a couch. The rest of the space was consumed by mini-versions of things one would typically find in a house—a mini-refrigerator, one of those camper stoves sitting atop a cabinet filled with clothes and dishes, even a dented TV that shared desk space with a beat-up lap top Cuba had found at a yard sale.

"Umm what?" He looked down at me, resigned to exhaustion.

"Here, eh." I patted the bed next to me, beckoning him to sit down close.

He sighed again and did as I requested, the bed bending a little under our combined weight. Cuba, as if determined to get this over with already, was the first to break the silence.

"What is it that you wanted?"

"You… um.. .please… eh…" It was so hard to say, but I knew it was what needed to be said. But why couldn't I utter it? I had practiced the lines over and over again in my head, but to produce them for real was close to impossible. Finally, flushed and stuttering, I pushed the words out. "P-please Cuba… kiss me."

The words hung in the air much like a cliff diver whom has just leapt from a rocky out crop—it took them a while to reach the water. When the splash was finally made, Cuba jerked back, his brows leaping like startled animals toward his hairline. His lips fumbled, and were only able to form a simple word after a series of incomplete monstrosities that took the form of sputtered syllables.

"What?"

"I…um... have a lot to tell you eh, but, uh… you have to kiss me first…" I had to look away at this point, my face was so red.

"You… you want me to kiss you?!" His expression had changed from shock to horror; he looked at me like I had just punched a baby.

"Y-yes.." The words were getting harder and harder to pull out.

"….the hell?!"

"P-please, Cuba." I was loosing my strength! God, it was going away, going away, going…

"You think you can just…augh… You had better not just be messing with my emotions, you twisted bastard."

"Cuba." I put everything I had into making my voice firm.

He sighed for the third time that day before leaning forward, and gently pressing his lips to mine. This was the feeling I had been waiting for, butterflies tickling my insides, and heat soaking my cheeks. It was the energy kick I had needed was there, and suddenly I was alive again. But, as I soon realized, it wasn't the same as before.

He was just pressing his lips to mine; there was no strength, no fire or passion like before. I had been kissed before Cuba; I had s girlfriend once (It was a short affair that had ended when both parties discovered they were disinterested. ), and there had been that long span of time when one of the upperclassman, France, wouldn't stop giving me unwanted attention (kisses and gropes when my guard was down, which for me, was most of the time), but I had never been kissed so intensely before. No one before had so possessed me with their power of their lips.

I massaged my lips over his, longing to recreate that feeling, I pushed harder, but it seemed to be no avail. Finally, I pulled back, hoping that there was a better way to do this. I stood up from the bed, moving myself so I loomed over him. His eyes followed me with an expectant expression; he clearly thought I had something to say.

But I didn't need any words at this point.

I leaned down, grabbing his lips and shoulders simultaneously. I knew I wouldn't be able to hold that pose for long, so I pushed my body forward. My knees lifted one at a time, sliding them onto the bed so they were positioned just around his legs. I rested my behind on his knees.

I could feel it now, the hitch in his breath; his hands tangled through my hair desperately. My thighs slid against his like hot butter, squeezing him and claiming him as my own. Was this when I was supposed to throw my tongue into the mix? I wasn't sure; I had never gotten this far with someone before. Hell, I had never wanted to get this far with someone before. But now, there was a steady need, like a rope had been tied around my chest, and some invisible force was reeling me in, pulling me forever closer to him. Even with our bodies flush as they were, I longed for something more. I slid my tongue, hot and slimy, between his lips.

At that point, I think Cuba completely forgot all his angst, because his reaction was almost immediate, his tongue intertwining with my own. Thinking about it logically, having someone else's slimy muscle in your mouth should be close to repulsive, but for some reason (perhaps because it was _my_ slimy muscle), Cuba didn't seem to mind, and I could think of nothing more attractive at that moment than licking him all over.

We hung like that for a long time; it could have been an eternity and I wouldn't have cared. I had lost all sense of time any had no thought besides Cuba. My glasses were smudged from where they had been smashed into my face while we were kissing, but Cuba had buried his face into my shoulder, and had one had tight around my waist and the other tangled in my hair, so my glasses weren't exactly high on my priority list right then. I just concentrated on breathing in his scent.

"God, I'm such a faggot, Canada." The words jumped out of no where like a surprise attack, and I was left defenseless.

"W-what?!" It wasn't very effective.

"I hated being in love with you all this time because it meant I actually had to come face-to-face with what I am." He hadn't let go; he hadn't looked up the entire time. He simply clung to me, slowly setting out his lament. " 'There's nothing wrong with being gay, right?' Is what I'd like to say, or 'I've never had a problem with it.' But I can't say either of those things. They'd be filthy lies and I'm bad enough as is. Do you want to know the real reason I moved out of my aunt and uncle's house?" He looked up at me now, something only possible because I was sitting on his lap.

I nodded.

"It was because Spain was gay."

The room seemed to go still, and I could hear the air conditioner come on, blowing a wave of cool air in my face. I blinked, stunned.

"Sure we argued a lot, and I wasn't cool with how he was always trying to force his religion on me, but I could have lived with all of that at least until high school was over. But one day, he came home ranting about how this boy at school was _so_ cute, and I just couldn't stand it. And then remember how I always had a serious problem with France? Well now I realize it was because I was jealous of how he was always with you, but back then, my reasoning was that he was a fag trying to corrupt my best friend."

And I even though I've never gone out of my way to be cruel to homosexuals, I've never been kind either. All this time I thought it was just because they were different, weird and freakish, but in reality it was because I was so afraid that I was gay too. I'm horrible." He finished off by burying his face back into my shoulder, and I could feel him shaking.

"If you apologize to Spain, it should all be okay, right? No real harm done, eh?" It was difficult, trying to comfort him like this. I had breathed in his words, and they had lodged themselves in my throat; speaking became a great effort.

"I still can't make up for it…"

"Look, Cuba, you made a mistake. You can't go through life without doing that…" I paused, gaining confidence. "The thing you can do, rather than avoid making mistakes, is to make it up to the person you wronged. I wronged _you_ when I didn't say anything after you kissed me yesterday. I wronged you by not realizing sooner that when you want to spend the rest of your life with one single person, it means you're in love with them. That's why I came here today, Cuba, to right my error. I wanted to tell you that of all the people in this world, you're the only one I never get tired of spending time with. If I have ever been in love with someone, or are in love with someone right now, it's you, Cuba."

The sun was dipping; having leapt its highest, it was now settling into a downward arch, where the horizon waited for it with open arms. The two blushed as they met, leaving a trail of oranges and pinks across the sky. Cuba was on my left, throwing angry words into his new cellular phone. We were lost in an unfamiliar part of town, and he was none to happy with the reason behind that.

"Geez, Spain, this double date was your idea! The least you could do was give us decent directions!"

A smile played on my lips as I looked at the little homey restraints that surrounded us with interest. Some had verandas and terraces, others big potted cactuses or ivy running up their brick walls. There were cracks in the sidewalk, but that didn't keep people from walking them, excited at the prospect of adventure and good food.

When I was looking around, I realized that something seemed wrong—we weren't holding hands. With a sway that felt natural, I reached over and entangled my gawky fingers with his sturdy darkened ones. Whatever he had been saying died off, and he turned to catch me with his chestnut eyes. A warm pink mirrored on both of our cheeks, and we hung there, enchanted, until the chattering of Cuba's cell phone brought us back to reality. He turned back to it, barking more words, but I could see a smile playing on his lips. He gave my hand a little squeeze.

END

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Notes: I bet you guys didn't expect it to suddenly turn into a Canada/Cuba fic, did you~? 8D

You get three guesses as to who the grumpy Italian boy Spain likes is, and the first two don't count.

Anyway, thank you to everyone who reviewed or added this to their Alert. I'm so happy to recieve such love.

Oh, and if you're into Cuba/Canada stuff, check out the "Maples and Cigars" Community on Live Journal. It's great. 3


	3. Chapter 3

Title: _Man, What a Way to Find out You're Really Gay_

Characters: Canada, Cuba, and the ever obnoxious America 3

Rating/Warnings: T+, for serious boy love

Notes: So I know I said that I was done with this story, and that it was just to be a simple Two-Shot. Well, I changed my mind. This idea has been haunting me since I finished Chapter Two, and in the end, I sat down and wrote it out (because I really wanted to write some Uke!Cuba...). Unlike the last two chapters, this one is from Cuba's perspective. It's also a tad more... adult than the last two, but not enough so to be rated M. Oh well~ Enjoy.

* * *

"Are you… sure this is okay, _amigo_?"

I had been having second thoughts since my blond-haired boyfriend had sprawled himself out on the bed beneath me. Sure, we had been dating for three or four weeks, and had both enjoyed our share of kisses and soft touches, but this… this was on a whole different level.

"My mom has a date tonight so she won't be home until late, and America headed over to England's place to "study". You know as well as I do that that means he won't be home until the wee hours of the morning." His soft voice had picked up a deeper note of authority over the last few weeks. I liked the way it always brought a smile to his lips, and how his eyes seemed to gleam with confidence, but this crazy idea made me fear that he was becoming far too much like his older brother—the one I hated.

Speaking of said bastard, it seemed he had yet to even become aware of the fact that we were friends, let alone that Canada had been letting me sneak kisses every other day. I couldn't understand how this miracle worked, seeing as this new Canada seemed to be radiating happiness all the time just like a miniature sun. He'd gotten a tad cocky too. Why America failed to see this blooming in Canada's character amazed me, but then again, it still amazed me that some of the teachers—even the ones the invisible blond had two years in a row—accidentally mistook him for his older brother in the hallways, or failed to see him at all. Sure, he was rather quiet, and he had always been passive as hell until the last couple of weeks, but Canada… Canada was amazing.

Amazing, and a little crazy, as I was quickly learning.

"You know that's not what I meant." The frown on my lips probably looked like a pout right now, and it probably wasn't helping me get my point across, especially considering that Canada had once told me that pouting made me look like a dejected puppy.

"Come on, Cubaaa~," he whined. His hands, which before had been neatly nestled at his sides, snuck about my waist like serpents. The aim seemed to be to get my body, held in the air a foot or so from his by grace of my arms, down onto his so we could rub together like magnets.

"Having sex isn't something you can just "Come on, Cuba~" me into!" I could feel a subtle heat growing on my cheeks; it was the first time I had really said his purpose for my visit to his house aloud. Of course it had been hinted at, and I had suspected it, but… It was still embarrassing. I had considered myself an adult ever since I had moved out of my aunt and uncle's place—it's hard to stay a _niño __after something like that—but the whole subject of sex still makes me a little edgy. I understand how it works, sure, and I don't really care if people do __do __it, however I'd never really thought about having sex until after I was married._

_Okay, that was a lie._

_I had thought about it. I had even been dating a few girls that would have been interested in sleeping with me. And while things had never gotten that far, I didn't want to end up siring some poor child that would have to deal with teenage parents._

_So I told all the girls I had dated that I was an "abstinence-before-marriage" kind of guy._

But now… now I wasn't so sure if that was me or not.

Canada was begging again. He'd gotten a tighter grip around my waist, and was running his fingers up my back. "People do this all the time, Cuba. It's completely okay." His smiles curled just a tad at the edges, and his eyes softened. The overall effect sent reinforcements to my blushing cheeks, and left me with a hitch in my breath; damn, he was hot.

I was stubborn though, and wasn't about to give in just yet. "Are you sure you want this, Canada?"

"You're the only one I'd want it from~" He seemed to be squirming his legs around mine, drawing me ever closer to the bedspread. Leaning up, he nibbled at my bottom lip, and I couldn't not kiss him back.

Like every other time we had kissed, it was nice. We would always slobber on each other's pink skin a tad before exchanging spit, clearly tasting whatever the other had eaten that day. This time though, he pulled back a little after each kiss, and blindly like a child following a light in the forest, I allowed myself to be drawn in. Soon, I was lying on top of him. My arms had abandoned holding me up right to favor stroking the side of his face and toying with his wispy bangs. This is probably when things started to get hot.

I must have accidentally grabbed that one long hair of his, because a moan crawled its way out of his throat. His legs, which before now had been spread wide, and were tangled along my feet like grape vines, suddenly tensed, and before I even knew what had happened, I was on my back.

He had somehow flipped our positions, pushing his body on top. That same smirk I had seen earlier had manifested on his face, and he cocked a single eyebrow at me before leaning down to run his roseate tongue along my neck.

_Mi Dios_.

His breath ran like steam over my skin, leaving it burning with almost as much pleasure as the spots beneath his constantly flicking tongue. Had all that time we spent eating ice cream together made his tongue that strong? It was running along my earlobe now. If so, then maybe min—

Sucking softly, Canada had drawn my earlobe between his lips, and was currently working at teasing it between my teeth like rubber. When he grew bored here, his mouth moved further along my neck, leaving an assortment of bite marks. I gasped for breath, and my hands reached out grab his backside, the presence of his pants heavily disappointing to me. Rubbing and pressing like tectonic plates, I had begun to think that our torsos had formed a solid bond, until Canada's arm slid between and started to unzip my jeans—then our bodies parted like the Red Sea.

"Aah, C-canada." The desperate moans that escaped my lips seemed to invigorate him, his hands sliding faster and gripping tighter while his lips pushed my t-shirt out of the way so he could lick my collar bone. It felt like my body was practically busting with pleasure.

And that's about when he door flew open.

"Hey Canadaaaa~ Can I borrow your dictionary? England refuses to kiss me until I can speak with a better vocabu—"

The silence threatened to smother.

America stood there, his hand still stuck in the motion of shoving the door open, and his mouth frozen in something that was probably horror. His eyes moved from Canada's face to mine then to where Canada's hands were, and finally back to Canada's face again; his jaw moved up and down as if to say something, but nothing besides air emerged. If this hadn't been such a serious moment, and my body wasn't so tense and needy for Canada's touch, I might have found the whole thing extremely humorous.

Canada stood up. My lower body was already aching at his absence, and the rest of me suddenly felt rather cold, but I could only watch. His expression had long since changed from stock to anger, and he crossed the carpet between his bed and door way with slow, determined steps. The seconds ticked by at a painfully slow rate. Canada grabbed the door handle, looking America straight in the face.

"W-what the hell—"America seemed to have regained his voice. It was too bad Canada slammed the door in his face before he could finish his sentence.

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

Title: _Man, What a Way to Find out You're Really Gay_

Characters: CanadaxCuba, America, Spain and Romano

Rating: T+, Serious Gay Love, Not yet M, but pretty darn close

Notes: I know I promised this to you guys forever ago. I am so, so sorry that it took me so long. ;__;

* * *

Silence. When Canada had slammed the door shut, it was as if all the noise in the world had been sucked out, leaving nothing but a stagnant static. He stood for a moment, cloaked in time that seemed to move awkwardly slowly, staring at the door handle. His face—previously solid and filled with determination—blanched. It was clearly was one of those 'what-the-hell-did-I-just-DO?!' expressions.

This lull of terror suffocated the room; Canada locked in a staring contest with the handle. It seemed like nothing would ever happen until a fist pounded on the door.

Startled like a child who's just found a dismembered hand in the cookie jar, Canada flinched visibly. Instead of pushing his body weight against the door, or shouting at his brother to leave him alone, he did the sensible thing, and locked the door. It was just this little click (and most possibly the sound of America's loud cursing from the other side of the door) that sent the blond boy to cloud nine. He glanced at the door—secure—and then back at the door handle for a final time before shooting a grin in my direction.

I probably should have been scared.

With that little smirk I had seen before he kissed me, and that fire of new confidence manifested on his face, he looked not too unlike that French kid from school (the bastard who kept making passes at my Canada) when he had his prey in his sights. In fact, I wondered why I hadn't noticed the resemblance sooner. Maybe it was because I was too busy imagining how Canada would look naked. And with the look he was giving me, I wouldn't have to imagine for too much longer.

Smirk growing wider with every step, Canada sauntered over to his bed with sinuous grace. I wondered if he had been trying to make his hips sway like that, or if it was just my erection messing with my mind. His little stray curl bobbled into what appeared to be a heart shape. Yup, it was just me.

He descended upon my form (which was sitting up at this time) and smoothly took my wrists into his palms. I was pinned against the wall. He had invaded my mouth before I could even wonder where the hell he had gotten this new strength from.

For the love of…

How could Canada even think about continuing this right now?! For the love of Castro, America was standing right outside the door! Wasn't it bad enough that he had seen us in the first place? As far as I was aware, until a few moments ago, he had been completely in the dark about our relationship, and I had hoped to keep it that way. Canada didn't need that bastard screwing in his life more than he already did, and I definitely didn't want to be a source of tension. And even if one was to push that _whole_ issue aside, you still had the matter than our privacy was still breached. Who in their right mind had sex when someone was right outside the door?! Besides hookers and horny teenagers, I mea—

. . .

Well, shit.

Besides Canada's lips dominating up upper half, and his fingernails digging into my wrists, he had also figured out that if he could prop himself up on his knees, and push his weight forward, our pelvises would grind quite nicely. I hated the moan that escaped my throat.

Completely against my will, my legs spread apart so they could wrap themselves around his hips and lock—ankle to ankle—in the back. Hot pants escaped my lips between kisses; my body was tingling under his touch, begging for more. To confirm that I wasn't the only one lost in the heat, he thrust his body into mine. His eye lids fluttered, his lips unhooking from mine so he could concentrate on heaving carbon oxide out of his lungs. Both of our pants bulged.

He had shifted his body a way, temporarily resting, and giving me a chance to speak. "C-Canada…" The word came with a great effort—I was trying to hurl a one hundred pound weight. "We.. we gotta stop, _amor_."

Lashes, delicate a soft like fallen snow flakes, fluttered open, pushed by a flurry. "W-why?" He mumbled back, staring at me through hazy eyes.

"Your brother," If I just focused on his face, and not my pulsing body, the words came easier.

"What about him?" His eyes had narrowed, and he leaned his torso back into mine, pushing our pulsing bodies flush again. My reaction was immediate, a shock sprinting straight up my spine to manifest itself in a deep groan.

The split second left my mind blank.

I was too dazed to notice when his body weight shifted backwards, or that my wrists had slid down the wall and thumped against the bed when he let them go. But when those same hands started messing with my pants for the second time that night, tugging them away from my waist, I could think again.

"H-he's right out side the door, Canada!" This time it was my fingers on his wrists, tugging their white digits from a death grip on my navy jeans.

"Who cares?!" He shot back, those delicate eyebrows starting to furrow.

"I care!" My lips framed my exposed teeth in a very distinctive snarl.

"Of course you care! Because obviously you care far more about my brother than me! What does it matter that he's out there, as long as I'm in here?!" He had a point, but…

"I'm not having sex with you while your brother is standing right outside your door!"

Like a fire that has died out and left behind only glowing ashes and coals, so did Canada's passion die down, leaving behind nothing but smoldering anger. His lips grew sour, and a shadow grew around his eyebrows, knitting them together. He stood up. His steps seemed to take him back, and out of my world, and while his weight was gone from my body, something heavier entangled itself in my chest.

"Get out."

His eyes remained downcast—stormy like his words. I don't really remember unlocking the door, or walking past a baffled America, though I'm pretty sure I punched him, and I must have fixed my pants somewhere along the way too, because they were tight and uncomfortable when I got home.

* * *

My driveway had only one car in it, meaning that just Spain—not my aunt and uncle—was home. I really just wanted to be alone, but it was easy enough to avoid Spain if you wanted to hard enough. He was probably watching TV in the living room, anyways. I doubted he would even hear me walk in.

I had learned to shut the door without making a sound—not that it could have been heard over the roar of the television. A Soccer match—or football, as Spain would say—screamed across the large flat screen on the far wall. Spain was not sitting on the couch, but I could see a half open chip bag and the remains of two soda cans; he probably was just in the restroom or grabbing more food from the kitchen. I kicked off my shoes, and wandered down the right hallway, past a potted plant and the family photos that just about wallpapered the wall. Heaving a sigh, I went for my door. No care in regards for sound was taken as I shoved the door open; I knew that Spain wouldn't hear me over the din of the TV.

That was, unless he wasn't in the bathroom or kitchen after all, but in the room we shared. A startled Spain looked up from the bed on right side of the room—the one with the green-plaid covering. Underneath him, Romano—shirtless and looking out of breath—had gone from red to beet red, and began to squirm.

That explained the two soda cans.

Slamming my door, I shoved my feet back into my tennis shoes, not caring that they were untied, or that my backpack was still lying in the hallway.

I slammed the house door too, and was soon out of the front yard and down the street. What possessed Spain to choose today of all days? Did he even realize that his parents were going to be home in a few hours? And why the hell didn't he know that the bed with the green-plaid cover was _mine_?!

Fuck my life.


End file.
